people ask us how we feel
when they don't want the real answer.
my family doesn't want to know
my friends don't want to know,
YOU may not even care about
how I feel, but I've cooped this up inside for far too long.

I explain how I feel by saying
that everything in my home is "on fire".
the tile that I used to walk on is burning,
the carpet that I use to lay on is now flaming,
and what use to be a mirror is now just
shattered glass doused in gasoline.

the society that I am in has
made me what
they called a freak, called a loser,
called kill yourself. the people who
surround me with these unsettling
comments have turned into blazing
demos in my mind. I dare not
touch them because then the flame
would spread and burn me down.
that is until my true friends
get a fire extinguisher to
save me from dying.

and just like planet earth
my core is flaming hot
and is melting me from the inside out.

when I do end up telling
people my perspective of my home
they usually say "how can you
feel like this? your life is
so good." in which I reply
"that's like telling someone with
asthma. 'oh you have asthma? but look at all
the air around you."

feeling depressed and
feeling not mentally safe
isn't about your life or
the things around you its
about the lost chemical
in your brain that is supposed
to make you what they call 'happy'

I don't know where this
feeling came from. I don't
know why I feel it, or why
its in my own house.
but I do know that my red
bicycle cards make me feel
safe. and I do know that my piano
makes me feel loved, and I do know
that writing spoken word makes me
feel part of something special.
and I do know that the only thing in my
house that is not on fire is my bed.

my keyboard lays on the
soft purple blanket that sets
my bed. my card games of
real life solitaire and played
on my big rainbow body pillow.
and on that bed is where I am now
writing this.

I hope one day I will find a fire
resistant place where I can read
this at a poetry slam and
escape my burning brain.